Yellow Roses
by Sigyn Holmes Laufeyson
Summary: Sherlock has never found it easy to say "I love you." A trip with John to John's aunt's grave one year convinces Sherlock that he needs to change that. John and Sherlock (it is Johnlock, but it's subtle enough that you can probably dismiss it in your mind as not) on hope, death, and love. White roses show a quiet way to remember, but yellow ones are for your dearest friends.


**The name used for the deceased aunt in this story is based off of someone who is actually at the memorial. Her name is Kathleen Moran, and she was born on April 3****rd****, 1959. A friend of mine recently visited the memorial and took a picture of a yellow rose head that was left on her name, which I assume was in remembrance of her birthday. Out of respect for her family and the woman herself, I have not used her actual identity nor her real birthdate for this story. However, I know many families of the 9/11 victims do not take kindly to completely fictional characters used for 9/11 based stories. Therefore, I wanted to base this fully fictional character off of the little information I could find on a real person whose tragedy is incredibly real to those who love her. I hope none of you are offended by my actions, and if so, do let me know, but kindly; I only wish to respect those whose lives were taken away too early and too cruelly.**

***Also, at one point I mention a street in East Sussex named "Reverie Street" and a graveyard named "East Sussex City Cemetery". I wanted to find an actual street and graveyard that matched the setting I depicted but it was taking too long so I left it at this. So just so you are away, neither Reverie Street nor East Sussex City Cemetery are (as far as I know) real locations in East Sussex.**

**Please review and let me know what you thought of this :) And then go check out my other work!**

* * *

The date was August 3rd, 2015. It was a mildly chilly and cloudy day on Liberty Street, New York City. A pair of men were walking around the 9/11 Memorial, searching for a name. One of the two was a tall man with dark, curly hair, and he was wearing a dark, long coat (oddly, the collar was upturned) with a blue scarf. His posture seemed stiff, as if he was uncomfortable being at such a sentimental and sorrowful place, while his companion (a shorter, ordinary man, with greying blonde hair and much more simple attire, although he was dressed in all black) seemed much more loose in form. Eventually the shorter man stopped at one spot and called out his friend's name. The taller man walked over and the shorter man informed him that, "Here she is."

The name of the man speaking was John Watson. And the name that he was referring to was Kathleen Marzipan. "Auntie Kate," John spoke in a quiet voice, which was followed with a sad chuckle.

"Come again?" his partner, Sherlock Holmes, asked as his brows furrowing in confusion at the name John uttered.

John turned to face his friend. "Auntie Kate," he repeated. "She was one of the few people I've ever truly loved in this world." He turned his face up towards the sky in reminiscence. "Her name was Kathleen, but though she let everyone else call her by her given name, she always insisted that I call her 'Auntie Kate'." He chuckled at the memory of her antics once more. "She had this… Quiet disposition. A sweet, quiet, yet sunny disposition. She was my dearest relative, and my dearest friend." The pondering detective stood there in respectful silence.

John withdrew a cupped hand from his pocket. He turned it out and uncurled his fingers to reveal a small, whitish-yellow head of a rose. John would've given his aunt a white rose, seeing that meaning of one is "the quiet beauty of a white rose has made it a gesture of remembrance,'" but his aunt loved the color yellow so much, as it was her favoured colour. And, in truth, more than anything he wanted to communicate to her his thanks for having always been there for him (a key part of the meaning of yellow roses), so yellow it was - but he chose one of those softer yellow roses, one where the core was yellow but it faded to white, because he felt that was the most appropriate; a beautiful mix between the two symbols.

Reverently, he walked right up to the glossy, engraved, stone surface of the memorial, with his palm held out a bit from him. He raised his right hand to carefully pick up the rose from his left palm, and softly placed it on the 'o' in her last name. He took a step away, his gaze still locked on her engraved name, and as he stepped away from the memorial, the sun hit the spot just right that as it fell upon the flower, the petals seemed to shine with the sun's rays. He gave a smile – a warm, gentle, reminiscent smile – and pressed his fingers to his lips. After a moment, he moved them away and pointed them in her name's direction. In a barely perceptible whisper, he spoke the words, "I love you."

And then he turned around and walked away, Sherlock trailing behind him for once.

* * *

The couple was back home in their flat. From between the time when they had left the remembrance site to the time they arrived back in 221B, John was his normal self, truly seeming like the trip hadn't fazed him emotionally in any way. Which typically, to Sherlock, would not have been an insensible reaction: John's aunt had been gone for 14 years, surely the effects of the tragedy weren't as painful as they once were. Which was true. But Sherlock knew human nature (even if he understood none of it), and he knew John. So he wasn't the least bit taken aback when John rose from their silent arrangement in their chairs and said in a soft voice that he needed to do something and left to his room. Sherlock had merely nodded in acknowledgement and left John to himself - likely to glance through old photo albums.

Sherlock sat unmoving in his chair, reflecting upon the visit they had just returned from. There was one moment that he couldn't stop thinking about: when he heard that tender phrase of "I love you" leave John's lips. He recalled his body went ever so slightly rigid at the sound of it. He knew his boyfriend was fond of using the phrase whenever he deemed it appropriate, and so were most people that he knew. He, however, never was one to use it. He never felt comfortable saying it, even to John. It wasn't that he didn't love John, or Mrs. Hudson, or anyone else that he should feel comfortable saying the beloved phrase to. No, it was just something that was physically difficult for him to say. It was almost like a defense mechanism his body had built up for him, in order to protect him from too much sentiment. And maybe that was the case. Whatever it was though, he knew it somewhat broke John every time John turned to Sherlock, looked him in the eyes, and spoke from the bottom of his heart, telling him that he loved him... And Sherlock could only respond with a soft nod. Sometimes he was able to make an attempt at something resembling it - albeit feeble attempts - such as "I feel the same way," or "And I you." They were never enough though, and he knew it, and he knew that John knew it. And though Sherlock got the feeling that John understood the real reasons why Sherlock could never say it, he knew at some point he'd have to step out of his comfort zone, for John's sake.

So after a while of waiting, Sherlock slowly rose from his chair and climbed the stairs to John's room. He softly knocked on the door, but then pushed it open without verbal permission. He had taken his time coming up, and he knew John would be alright by the time he joined him.

He saw John kneeling down by his bed, and, sure enough, with old photo albums all scattered about him. He was currently looking at an old, unbroken, family picture, where he and his beloved aunt had their arms around each other's shoulders and waists, both of them beaming from ear to ear. Sherlock sat down beside John and gazed at the picture as well. They sat in silence, the only noises were the inhales and exhales of their breaths, and the clock ticking away the seconds of the evening. After a moment, John's only movement was his hand reaching out to brush his fingertips over his aunt's face. Sherlock looked at the motion, and then shifted his gaze towards John's face. His expression was rather softly blank, but his eyes were shining with the memories of youthful, joyful, carefree days. Sherlock took his time taking it all in, then slowly reached up with his hand to John's jaw. As soon as his fingers made contact, John turned his head towards Sherlock's. Their gazes locked, and then, slowly, Sherlock moved in to meet John's lips for a tender kiss.

Sherlock pulled away after a few moments, leaning his forehead against John's, their eyes both shut as they took peace in this moment. After a thought and a bit of hesitation, Sherlock took in a deep breath and, as he exhaled, blew out the words "I love you."

His eyes were still shut, but John's flew open. He stared in awe at the detective, whose features were slightly bunched up, as if he were in incredible discomfort and yet relief. John's lips turned up at the corners. He knew for a fact just how hard it was for Sherlock to muster the ability to do that. Without a second's waste, John leaned in and softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's once more. He could feel the tension in Sherlock's body drain as Sherlock relaxed into the kiss. Then John pulled away, leaned his forehead against Sherlock's, and whispered, "I love you too." Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, and John smiled the sweetest smile Sherlock had ever seen.

* * *

The date was March 5th, 2059. It was a coolly grey and foggy day on Reverie* Street, East Sussex. A man was walking about in the East Sussex City Cemetery*, taking his time to find a tombstone whose location he knew perfectly well, though this was his first time truly visiting it. He was a tall man with dark grey, curly hair, and he was wearing a dark, long, worn-through coat with a black scarf. His posture seemed gated, as if he was uncomfortable being at such a sentimental and sorrowful place, but really, it was the man who he was coming to visit that was affecting him so. He was steeling himself for the pain. Eventually the man stopped at one spot and spoke out his friend's name.

The name of the man speaking was Sherlock Holmes. And the name that he had spoken out loud was John Watson. "My dear John." Sherlock spoke the dear name again in a quiet voice, which followed with a small sigh.

"Come again?" A man who happened to be wandering the cemetery and appeared at John's tombstone asked as his brows furrowing in confusion at the name Sherlock had uttered.

Sherlock turned to face the stranger. "My dear John," he repeated, "John Watson." He gestured to the tombstone. "He was one of the few people I've ever actually loved in this world." He turned his face up towards the sky, trying to keep the tears subdued. "He was my husband, and my best friend. He called me that first, you know." He chuckled at the memory of that day once more. "He had this… Light about him. He was the soldier to me, the consulting detective; he was the heart to my head. He was, in truth, my dearest friend." The curious stranger stood there in respectful silence.

Sherlock brought up his hand from his side. He lifted it to his eye level to give one last look at the small, yellowish-white rose. Sherlock would've given his recently deceased husband a black rose, seeing that he felt it more appropriate symbolically in the face of death, but his John loved the color yellow so much, as it was the color that reminded him of hope and beautiful days gone by. And, in truth, more than anything he wanted to communicate to him his thanks for having always been there for him, no matter what, til death did they part.

Reverently, he walked right up to the glossy, engraved, stone surface of the memorial, with his hand held out a bit from him. He lowered his hand and softly placed the rose in front of the tombstone. He took a step away, his gaze still locked on the engraved name, and as he stepped away from the memorial, the sun hit the spot just right that as it fell upon the flower, the petals seemed to shine with the sun's rays. He gave a smile – a small, gentle, watery smile – and pressed his fingers to his lips. After a moment, he moved them away and pointed them in John's name's direction. In a barely perceptible, shaky, broken whisper, he choked out the impossible words, "I love you."

For a moment, he could almost hear John whisper the response, "I love you too," into his ear, just like he did every time Sherlock could fight out those loving words.

And then he turned around and walked away, Sherlock being alone once again.


End file.
